Chapter Text
Nicky lives in a cramped apartment in a cramped house in a cramped street.
It seems those are the only affordable options in Wales, the houses scrunched up tight together like they’ll get cold otherwise. Nicky can empathize. It’s always cold. Or wet. Or wet and cold.
He throws open the window and wipes down the fog on the inside with a towel. If he forgets, he runs the risk of mold. God, if he could afford his own place, he would put in decent windows, none of this. If his customers could see where he lived, he would never sell a chair again.
Setting down the towel, he inhales deeply.
Immediately, he cringes.
It’s getting really old, how sensitive his nose is once a month.
When he was younger and still lived in Italy, it didn’t bother him much. For a while, he thought he just had a very strange allergy to some kind of Welsh flora. Then, he realized it was only ever during his rut, and only ever the scent of other people that triggered it. It’s not even that he’s repulsed by the scents of other humans, it’s just that he viscerally doesn’t want them in his space when he’s rutting.
In Italy, in his parents’ house, he’d only ever been surrounded by family scents, unnoticeable and part of the background hum of existence. It’s people he’s not related to that are the problem.
It makes living in an apartment building difficult.
In theory, he likes omega scents. They’re comforting. Nile from upstairs has an enjoyably citrussy note to her scent that Nicky usually only catches in tiny whiffs when they’re cooking together and they have to crowd particularly close in his tiny kitchen.
Now, he can smell it clear through the ceiling and while he doesn’t hate it, it’s just not what he wants near him while he’s in rut, and he knows the feeling will only intensify. Soon, Booker from across the hall will get in from his night shift, and that won’t help. He smells of deep, rich hazelnut; Nicky finds it mildly pleasant when he catches it because Booker’s particularly sweaty after a game of football. He finds it absolutely unbearable in rut.
The last time he talked to his mother, going on three years ago now, she said, “You’ll never meet someone with that attitude, Nicolò.”
He wanted to say any number of things about that—that he had no trouble meeting people, it was just all the parts after meeting them; that it wasn’t a question of attitude but rather of aptitude; that perhaps the way she honed in on his failure to find someone, specifically a female omega, was slowly destroying their relationship.
In the end, he said none of those things and hung up instead. He answered her next call with a text that he was busy, and the one after that as well, and eventually she stopped trying. She still sends blurry images via WhatsApp, and he still dutifully answers, but he knows there’s nothing he can say to her that she wants to hear.
It’s not that Nicky hasn’t tried dating. He has, many times. He’s tried dating apps, he’s tried picking up strangers in bars. It’s alright, he’s met plenty of men he’s found interesting to talk to of all different dynamics and he’s had fun getting to know them. It’s just that the moment his body begins gearing up for a rut, he can’t stand to be around them, and that would put a damper on any relationship. Nicky can’t even hold it against anyone, he would be insulted too.
Above him, the Nile’s citrus scent intensifies as she moves from her bedroom to the kitchen. Nicky’s nostrils wrinkle against his will.
He sighs at himself, aggrieved. Nile is lovely. They’re good friends, and ordinarily, her scent is a comfort. It’s not news to him that they aren’t attracted to each other; he’s not inclined towards women and she’s not inclined towards alphas, but it feels unutterably rude of his body to be this specific about it.
This is only the pre-rut stage, as well. He knows tomorrow he’ll be plugging up his nostrils, almost unable to bear it.
There’s nothing for it. He picks up his phone, slides his thumb over the unlock button, and opens his contacts.
For a long moment, he just stares at the number. The details are right there. Cardiff Cycle Center, the only place to go for anyone who needs a little help getting through their cycle that isn’t the hospital.
Nicky would rather go to the hospital.
The only thing stopping him from doing it is that he knows it wouldn’t actually help.
He presses the call button.
It rings twice, and his heartrate picks up, hopeful that no one will answer and he’ll just have to muddle through by himself again. He’s about to hang up when the line clicks on.
“Cardiff Cycle Center, this is Joe Al-Kaysani speaking, how can I help you?” Joe says cheerfully.
All the blood drains out of Nicky’s head, leaving him dizzy and confused. He didn’t think the boss himself would be answering the phone.
“Hello?” Joe asks.
“Hi,” Nicky says hurriedly, his lips numb. “I wanted to see if you had any space left for. For my rut. It’s kind of short notice.”
Joe hums, and there’s the sound of an appointment book flipping open. “I’m sure we can figure something out,” he says. “Does it start today?”
“Tomorrow,” Nicky says. “But…”
“We have plenty free tomorrow,” Joe says cheerfully, “you’re not the only person who likes to leave it till late. Have you stayed with us before?”
“No,” Nicky says hollowly. “But, Joe—“
“Okay, I’m going to need your contact information and I’ll have to ask a few questions about what it is you’ll be needing during your rut. Is that alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Nicky says, aware that he’s panicking and it reads in his tone. “Before you accept my booking, you need to—“
“It will be just fine,” Joe says, smooth and professional. “Why don’t we start with your name?”
“That’s just it,” Nicky says miserably. “It’s Nicolò di Genova.”
There’s a long pause. “Oh,” Joe says.
He hasn’t hung up, which is what Nicky was expecting, so he uses the silence to start apologizing.
Joe adjusts his blazer a little and tugs his shirt down.
He examines his reflection in the shop window. He looks good—he looks professional. That’s what he wants. He sips at his already lukewarm caramel macchiato and tries to calm down.
He checks his watch. Ten more minutes. He could easily leave now and forget all of this. He’d be well within his rights to refuse Nicolò di Genova service. He probably should. Quỳnh told him to, when he explained where he was going. She said he was a soft touch for a sob story and that he should have handed the phone off to her.
She wasn’t wrong.
In Joe’s defense, di Genova had been honestly apologetic on the phone. He hadn’t made excuses; he’d been very clear that his behavior five years ago, when Joe and Quỳnh were still getting the center off the ground, had been out of line. He’d apologized for the harm he caused, and he apologized for the things he said. He said he’d put in time and effort to learn better, and he understood fully if Joe had no space for him at the center but that he was very sorry for what he’d done.
When Joe admitted that he had no idea what to do next, di Genova had even suggested this, a meeting in public to clear the air before Joe was forced to make a commitment to accept him in the center.
It didn’t match the man Joe remembers at all, and he agreed for lack of any other ideas. Quỳnh is lingering in a trinket shop a block away in case it goes south, but Joe’s still debating just leaving before di Genova even gets here.
Five years ago, di Genova wrote a series of letters to the South Wales Echo, all beginning with the very apologetic caveat that he was new in town and still learning the language, so if he was misunderstanding he would appreciate the correction. The letters then often continued with a series of questions – no research of his own, only casting doubt on Joe’s life’s work. A center for atypical cycle management–wouldn’t that just enable deviants? Wasn’t the kind of chemical invasion used to ease rough heats and ruts an invasion into the natural way of things, and shouldn’t it be reduced to the purely medically necessary as opposed to being a glorified resort? And all those heats and ruts piled on top of each other in one building – wouldn’t it turn into an orgy?
It was of course exactly the kind of question they had been fielding for months for every single permit they acquired, and Joe was getting heartily sick of answering them with meticulously quoted research papers when there never seemed to be any proof necessary that the center would encourage any kind of deviancy, unnatural intervention or orgies. To be entirely fair to di Genova, they were the kind of questions anyone who hadn’t gotten a degree in the topic might ask. To be entirely fair to Joe, they were also all questions the center’s website answered in full.
One man writing dumb as fuck letters to the editor beget another, though, and before long, the paper was running misinformed headlines and raising the same kinds of questions, and suddenly there was a headline in the Daily Mail about the center and local government was talking about pushing back their opening date.
The worst of it was when the paper interviewed di Genova, an, in their words, ‘upstanding young entrepreneur bringing authentic Italian craftsmanship to Cardiff’. Most of the article was just a retread of di Genova’s thinly veiled criticisms, but the end contained a series of words Joe has wished he could forget ever since: The reporter asked di Genova why he thought Joe and Quỳnh were so interested in creating this center if there were so many unanswered questions about it (unanswered, Joe’s ass). Di Genova responded, “Perhaps Mr. al-Kaysani is bringing his own customs to Cardiff, I hear things like this are more common in the Middle East.”
That, too, was unfortunately nothing Joe hadn’t heard before, but it was more than enough to make him cancel his subscription to the paper.
In the end, the center’s opening was on time, because Piers Morgan said something stupid that hogged the limelight just in time, but Joe has not forgotten or forgiven, even though he was surprised to not hear any more from di Genova in the interim. Quỳnh had shrugged it off—no skin off their noses—but she had also been extremely irritated that no one ever seemed to remember she had co-founded the place. “I should get half the bigotry,” she said. “It’s what I’m owed."
Really, Joe thinks, draining his coffee, no apology could be enough to let him within their doors. He still has seven minutes before di Genova is due to get here, and he can still–
“Joe?” A soft, low voice asks. “Mr. al-Kaysani, that is?”
Joe blinks up at the man hovering a safe distance away from him. “Yeah,” he says.
Five years ago, he thought di Genova looked smug, in the paper. The photo there showed him wearing his work outfit, a loose T-shirt under an protective apron, a terrible haircut and mutton chops.
Now, his hair is longer, halfway pulled back from his face in a bun, and there are deep circles under his eyes. He’s wearing a shirt that could be identical, and ill-fitting jeans, and he looks nothing as smug or as detestable as Joe remembers.
“Thank you for meeting me,” di Genova says. “I appreciate it.”
“It’s my job,” Joe says woodenly. “Have a seat.”
Di Genova sits, and Joe wonders where exactly to go from here.
“So,” he says.
“Can I get you a coffee?” di Genova asks.
Joe peers down at his empty cup. “I probably shouldn’t,” he says with a wince.
Di Genova nods in acceptance. “Well,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. For everything I put you through.”
Slowly, Joe nods. “Why did you do it, then?”
Di Genova shrugs uncomfortably. “Because I was young and full of anger and resentment at the world and at myself and it was easier to blame people trying to change it for the better than to work on myself. And I regret that deeply, and if there’s anything I can do to make up for it, I will.”
Joe snorts. “You could send a retraction statement to the paper,” he says darkly.
“I did, three years ago,” di Genova says. “They only published it online, not in the print version.”
“Fuckers,” Joe mutters. Maybe he shouldn’t have canceled his subscription if he missed that.
“Indeed.”
“Why did you change your mind?” Joe asks.
Nicky shrugs uncomfortably. “At first I did some reading,” he says. “There was some feedback to the interview, calling me a racist. Not undeservedly. I was angry, at first, of course. But some of the comments online linked to very interesting articles, and then I looked up the authors and ordered some books. It...awakened some regrets. And then I started working in local schools, you know, carpentry and woodworking for troubled teens, that kind of thing, and I met all sorts of teenagers with all sorts of backgrounds and I suppose my worldview just changed, the more of the world I grew to understand.”
Joe swallows.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he admits.
“Again,” di Genova says, “I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” Joe says. “I’m getting that.” He’s aware the polite thing to do would be to accept the apology, but he’s not exactly ready to do that yet. “Why don’t you tell me why exactly you need our services?”
For the first time, di Genova stutters. It’s weirdly comforting. He apologized so eloquently Joe feels kind of like a dick for not really reacting, even though he’s well aware he’s under no obligation and di Genova has actually been decent enough to make that clear. Still, it’s good to see him at least a little out of his depth.
“Ah,” di Genova says. “It’s. Well.” He sighs. He looks down at the table. To the wood grain he’s tracing with a fingernail, he says, “My ruts have been terrible ever since I left my parents’ house. To be entirely honest, five years ago, I was very scared and didn’t understand what was happening to me; the thought that I might be someone who would need to go to a special center because my cycle isn’t normal was terrifying. So, I did the stupidest and least kind thing I could have and lashed out.”
“Terrible how?” Joe asks. He’s envisioning hyperaggression, loss of control, the stereotypical alpha ailments.
Di Genova’s cheeks flush. “Nothing smells right,” he says. “I can’t be near anyone. Even the other people in my apartment building–they smell too strongly, they’re all too close. I don’t want anyone near me or touching me.”
“Oh,” Joe says, leaning back in surprise. “Oh, that must be rough.”
Di Genova blinks up at him. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“What have you tried, so far?” Joe asks it without judgment; he’s learned that before they come to him, people tend to try whatever else they can think of, and di Genova has more reason to than most.
“Everything,” di Genova says. “I went to a hospital, once. It was awful, they had to sedate me because there were too many scents all at once, and they couldn’t find anything wrong with me, biologically speaking. I take scent blockers, but I can’t sleep well on them and they only do so much. I’ve tried some home remedies, massage therapies, yoga...I’ve tried to spend time with partners I thought were compatible, before the rut starts, but.” He grimaces. “It turned out they weren’t.”
He really does look very tired.
Soft touch, Quỳnh’s voice crows in Joe’s head, and he ignores it. There’s a reason she runs the business side of things and leaves the counseling to him.
“Alright,” Joe says. “Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll get a room in the center for your rut. You will sign an agreement when you check in, accepting that we reserve the right to revoke our hospitality or at least leave you to your own devices during your rut if things go badly. And you’ll have to deal with me.”
“With you?” Nicky asks, surprised.
Joe nods. “I don’t really have a scent,” he says. “You may have noticed. It’s probably your best bet.”
“I can’t ask that of you,” di Genova says.
“You’re not,” Joe says. “You’re paying me for my services and I’m very good at my job. I just expect you to not be a dick to me.”
“Thank you,” di Genova says. “I won’t disappoint you.”
He says it so earnestly Joe actually believes him.
Joe’s still going to give him the room with the squeaky window, just on principle.